


Houses of Cards, Flat on the Table

by atmilliways



Series: The Breaking Light [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a pine tree but a different kind, Aziraphale misses Crowley while he's asleep, Crowley dreams of Aziraphale when he's sleeping, Crowley is a pine tree (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Other, Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Questioning the nature of Free Will, Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22379590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are both somewhat at loose ends after the Almost Apocalypse.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Breaking Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610950
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	1. The Colors of All Your Moods

**Author's Note:**

> **Originally Posted:** March 13, 2009 on Fanfiction dot Net
> 
> Because this has been posted elsewhere, albeit eleven years ago, it wasn't eligible to be part of my Good Omens Big Bang fic. However, it remains both the inspiration and prologue for said fic.
> 
> I'll save my official thank yous for the main event, but huge amounts of love and good vibes for everyone who took the time to read this and give me feedback. ❤️

When Crowley goes on another one of his long sleeps, he fully intends to sleep the decade away. Apocalypses can be quite tiring, especially if they don't actually happen and the effort of trying to avert it has a chance to catch up. 

In one dream, the only important one because it seems to be the only one willing to repeat itself, he's lying on grass in a nice patch of warm shade. Nearby is a still, crystal clear lake—not man-made, though it does have the appearance of being made by Someone. The tree above him is laden with bright fruit that's impossible to make out clearly through the shifting leaves.

There are other trees, but this, too, is the important one, and this is the only dream in which Aziraphale makes an appearance. The angel is sitting, leaning comfortably against the tree trunk and facing the other direction with his wings neatly folded. 

Crowley knows it's a dream because this never happened. But it's a comfortable dream, so he decides not to question it, just stretches lazily and folds his hands behind his head.

"Do you think," Aziraphale asks, sounding far away, "people truly believe that what they don't know won't hurt them? Really, truly believe it?"

"Yeah, sure," Crowley says with a yawn. He looks up at the just visible fruit. Red shapes in shifting green. They weren't even apples, back then. He can't remember what they _were_ , and to his mild irritation no one seems to have written down an exact description, merely the nearest translation of a translation of a translation. "Ignorance is bliss, haven't you heard?"

This might be part of an actual conversation they'd had once, but Crowley can't remember that either.

Aziraphale sighs, and it's easy to forget for a moment that this is just a dream. So easy that Crowley briefly wonders if his subconscious doesn't know Aziraphale a little too well. "Yes, I have heard that, thank you. But I know that you tempt people without them knowing all the time. . . ."

"Free will," Crowley reminds him. "They make their own choices."

"But that doesn't answer the question at all," the angel protests. "They still don't realize what they're doing. And then those poor souls end up in Hell, scarcely knowing why."

"They know. They're just good at lying to themselves."

There is a long stretch of relative silence, interrupted only by pleasant birdsong filtering through the trees from what seems like a great distance. If Crowley squints, he can just make out flickers of blue and red and brown in the faraway treetops. 

"Are we?" Aziraphale asks finally.

Crowley sits up and glances casually at him over his shoulder. He can only see the angel in profile, a golden outline against the brightly lit water. "Are we what?"

"Any good at lying to ourselves?"

A breeze sends slow ripples across the glass-like lake. Crowley opens his mouth to reply _Yeah, sure_ again, but what actually comes out is, "I want you."

Aziraphale sighs again, sounding exactly the same as before. "Yes. I know."

The dream isn't quite so comfortable now. The sun is too hot, even in the shade, and the grass itches a bit, and Crowley has the distinct impression that he's forgotten something and should really be somewhere else. He crawls over and kisses Aziraphale once, twice, possessively on the mouth.

Between kisses Aziraphale says, "My dear, I simply don't have the training for this sort of thing," though by the second one his hands are in Crowley's hair.

And then the dream ends. By the time it starts up again Crowley's forgotten how it goes, so every time it's like a new Revelation that never quite gets the chance to go anywhere.


	2. Gathering Every Crumb You Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once more, with Aziraphale.

When Crowley goes on another one of his long sleeps, Aziraphale, instead of feeding the ducks at St. James park or dining alone at the Ritz, lets himself into the demon's apartment some days. It's not breaking in—not _exactly_ breaking in, because after all he does have a key. 

Obtained by his own means, but still. It's not exactly forced entry.

Part of why he visits is to make sure the plants stay watered, but it’s mostly just to visit. Aziraphale doesn't sleep; he doesn't have to, and has never really seen the attraction. But he sometimes lies down on top of the blankets next to Crowley and loses track of time for a while, listening to his counterpart's slow, even breathing. 

He doesn't mind admitting that he's a little lonely, although he doesn't have anyone to admit this to other than himself. Really, it was rather selfish of Crowley to do something like this directly after something so nerve-wracking as the Earth nearly being destroyed to make way for the Great War. Occasionally he finds himself clucking his tongue in disapproval, forgetting that no one is listening. It’s not as if a spot of selfishness was unexpected, coming from a demon, but the disconcerting loneliness abides. 

Sometimes Aziraphale finds himself wondering if this is what losing a limb feels like. They had been opponents for six thousand years, Arrangement notwithstanding, and it’s unclear whether or not they technically still are. As much as Crowley liked to say that they’re on their own side now, saying it and making sense isn’t the same thing as it being _true_. Heaven and Hell will leave them alone for a while, but not forever. Aziraphale doesn’t even know what to hope for, though, because until the world had almost ended it had never occurred to him that they might, at some point, not be opponents anymore. Might not be anything anymore.

“The thing is,” he confides in the plants in low tones, “there’s not a lot of personality to this place. Give me a good bookshop any day, or . . . or even a library.” 

This is saying quite a lot, for Aziraphale, as it pains him to know there are perfectly innocent books out there being subjected to harsh treatment from anyone who might accidentally tear a page or spill tea on a blameless cover. Although, admittedly, his reverence of the printed word fell rather short where the newer, more mass-produced stuff was concerned. He would not, for instance, wish to spend more time in a Waterstone’s or Barnes & Noble than absolutely necessary. 

He shakes off that line of thought and continues, giving one of the larger plants a generous spritz with the mister. “Anything with items that have been well-loved at some point or another, anyway. Everything here is rather sterile, I’m afraid. Except for you lot, of course,” he adds with a smile. “Crowley must devote a fair amount of time and attention to you all. Such lovely foliage. I don’t believe I’ve seen anything quite so verdant since Eden.”

The plants’ only response is a hesitant rustling as the central air kicks in. (Not a common feature of London flats, but broadly speaking Crowley’s flat isn’t exactly run of the mill European housing.) They aren’t used to praise, and aren’t entirely sure it bodes well. 

Sometimes Aziraphale catches himself considering slipping in under the blankets, just for a little more reassurance that they're both still there, that nothing's really changed. But Crowley considers pajamas something that happens to other people, and that, as far as the angel is concerned, would be far too inappropriate. Not to mention the possibility that Crowley might wake up and demand to know what he's doing there at all. So he doesn't.

But . . . he thinks about it.


End file.
